Afraid For, Not Afraid Of
by Jamie552
Summary: He’d spent enough time over the years without his little brother’s company; he wasn’t about to let anything separate them again. One Shot. Tag to "Simon Said".


**Author's Note:** This fic is dedicated to sammygirl1968, who not only helped me work up the courage to post my first Supernatural fanfic, but also inspired _this_ fic. Thanks so much, Jean! This one-shot is a tag to "Simon Said", so I hope you like it!

**Disclaimer:** Sam and Dean Winchester _do_ _not_ belong to me in any way...although I _do_ occasionally wish I owned Dean.

***************

_You know, I heard you before, Dean._

_When Andy made you tell the truth. _

_You're just as scared of this as I am._

Well, dammit.

Andy seemed like a relatively cool dude, but Dean had absolutely no problem admitting to himself that he kinda wanted to punch the little psychic in the face.

Dean Winchester hated secrets.

He hated lies and he hated half-truths.

Well…under certain circumstances, that is.

His life practically demanded that he lie on a regular basis; fake ID's, uniforms, dumb-ass business suits that he couldn't stand wearing—all helping him to be convincing, to pretend that he had a higher status in society than he really did. Badges got him information that he needed and if staring a few people in the face and telling a few bold lies got him that information, then hey…no problems.

The lies that he and Sam told to everyone _else_ were required. Keeping secrets and lying to _each_ _other_? That was unacceptable.

Again…only under certain circumstances.

Which brought everything right back around to wanting to punch Andy in the face.

As much as he hated, _hated_, secrets between him and his little brother, how he _really _about the psychic-power-vision crap was something that Dean had decided to keep to himself. Telling Sammy would only freak the kid out, make him uncomfortable, and where the hell would that get them?

Sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, at Dean's right side, was where Sam belonged. It was as close to home as either one of them could get. The last thing Dean wanted was to give Sam a reason to think otherwise.

He'd spent enough time over the years without his little brother's company and he wasn't about to let anything separate them again.

Not even painful premonitions, connected to Yellow Eyes, that showed in detail the truly horrible deaths of random people scattered across the country.

_Yikes._

Dean lounged lazily behind the wheel of his car, squinting in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. It was mid-morning and they'd rolled out of Guthrie only a few short hours before. Both men were exhausted from the insane events of the previous night and Dean didn't have to be a genius to see that Sam was practically struggling to stay awake.

His eyes would slowly slip closed and then, after only a second, they'd snap open again, Sam looking around the car, blinking wildly.

Dean felt a small warm smile spread across his face as he glanced over at the lethargic lump in the passenger seat. "Get some sleep, Sam."

Sam forced his eyes open again and let out a long and tired breath. "Where are we?"

"Just crossin' into Colorado. It's gonna be a while yet."

Sam let out another breath and leaned his head back.

"How's your shoulder doing?"

"It's sore."

"We should've gone and gotten it checked out before we left."

Sam gave a small shake of his head. "The medic said it looked ok. There's gonna be bruising though."

"What the hell she hit you with?"

"I dunno. It was either a really big tree branch or a really small baseball bat."

Dean chuckled in amusement and shook his head, catching his lower lip between his teeth for a moment. "Ouch."

"Yeah."

"Well, look on the bright side—at least she was too short to get you in the head."

"Shut up, Dean."

A light silence fell inside the Impala as it tore down the country back-road. It was a comfortable silence—talking wasn't necessary or expected…it very seldom was.

Dean thought randomly back to the countless hours…_days_…that he and Sam had spent in the back seat of that car together. Even though Dean had staked a claim on the passenger seat as soon as he was old enough to do so, he almost always ended up in the back at some point in an effort to keep his little brother occupied. They'd played cards—it had taken Dean almost two weeks to teach Sam how to play poker on the slippery vinyl seats…they'd worked with a ratty set of multiplication flash cards that Dean had stolen from a dollar store…they'd read books, and had even spent hours playing rock, paper, scissors—which is how Sam had discovered in the first place that Dean had some sort of mental blockage when it came to shooting anything _but_ scissors.

Dean thought about those days a lot—a time where he and Sam were a lot younger and Sam hadn't decided yet to become his own person.

Even though it made things easier and safer having an equal with him to watch his back, part of Dean missed the little squirt who'd followed him around with worshipping eyes. That little squirt had been so easy to protect; bullies, scraped knees, soothing him after a nightmare or pulling him close to read him a bedtime story after his nightly bath.

The bulkier, and much _taller_ squirt that sat beside him at _that_ moment cleared his throat and opened his eyes again, looking out his window. "So we're goin' to see Ellen?"

After a second, Dean nodded. "Yeah, she said she needed to talk to us about somethin'."

"She didn't say what?"

"Does she ever?"

Sam sighed. "No, I guess not."

"All I know is, if she's got a job for us, we're sayin' no."

Looking surprised, Sam looked over and raised his eyebrows. "We are?"

"We are." Dean returned his glance for just a second before looking back to the road. "After the last couple days, I think we should rest up…take it easy."

"Why?"

"You don't want to?"

"No, it's not that. I just…I thought you'd wanna pick up another job right away, that's all."

Dean gave an acknowledging nod, silently admitting that Sam was right; normally picking up a new lead _would_ be what he wanted. "I dunno, man." He said lightly, shifting in his seat. "I just thought that with everythin' that's goin' on, we should take some time."

"And do what?"

"I dunno." He shrugged. "Shoot some pool _for fun_…have a couple beers…catch up on sleep, because I don't know 'bout you, but _I_ am dropping."

Dean could feel his little brother's eyes on him and he had to fight to keep his face neutral.

He knew that his personal reasons for wanting the time off were lame—he needed to spend time with his little brother, do things together that didn't revolve around Sam suddenly turning into the unexplained.

For just a short time, Dean wanted to imagine that things were somewhat normal. He wanted them to just be _brothers_; two guys on the road together, kicking back, relaxing, and looking for a good time. Not marked demon hunters; one trying desperately to keep his brother safe and happy, while the other suffered from visions and occasional bouts of telekinesis.

Dean couldn't hold in a snort and he shook his head. _My life is weirder than science-fiction._

Ah, what the hell. His life practically _was_ science-fiction.

"Ellen always has something for us-"

"Well, too bad. There are a thousand other hunters that go through that place, she can get someone else to do it."

After a moment, Sam asked, "What if it's _really _good?"

Dean thought for a second and then, reluctantly, gave in. "Like…_how_ good?"

"What if it's a werewolf or-"

"A werewolf I'll make an exception for-" Sam laughed lightly and Dean couldn't help but smile. "But anything less than that? I don't care what she says, we're off-duty."

*****

To Dean's massive disappointment, Ellen _hadn't_ called them there to hunt down a werewolf.

To Dean's nearly uncontrollable frustration, Ellen _had_ called them there to grill them about their latest hunt.

She'd asked questions, jumped to conclusions, made assumptions; in the end, Dean had nearly lost his temper completely, telling her flat out that what had happened in Guthrie was a family thing and that it wasn't any of her business.

She hadn't reacted well.

_You mind your tongue with me, boy._

_This isn't just your war, this is war._

_Somethin' big and bad is comin', and it's comin fast._

_Their side holds all the cards._

So Sam had launched into the entire story, and Dean had had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from instinctively firing out in protectiveness. The psychics, their varied abilities, whether or not the Winchesters personally believed them to be dangerous. It was also during that conversation that Dean had learned that there _was_ no real pattern when it came to tracking them down; even though he'd assumed all along that the psychic kids had all lost parents in house fires, Sam had announced that Anson Weems—Andy's brother—didn't fit that pattern, he hadn't had a house fire.

_They're aren't in the system. There's no way to track 'em all down._

_And so who knows how many of 'em are really out there._

After beer and copious amounts of whiskey, Ellen practically ordered the brothers into the back room behind the bar. The small room had two single beds, which Dean sort of cringed at when he saw them, but he was thankful just the same. He himself was far from drunk, but clambering behind the wheel of the Impala and driving aimlessly until they found a hotel was _not_ on his high list of priorities.

Leaving a slightly unsteady Sam in the care of Ellen and Jo, he slipped off of his stool and crossed the room, pulling open the front door and making his way over to the Impala.

Their two duffel bags were thrown halfhazardly in the back seat and Dean pulled open the driver's door, quickly sliding in behind the wheel.

He'd stashed his cell phone in the glove compartment earlier that day, and as he reached for it, he was once again bombarded with memories of a younger Sam—the first time he'd shot a gun, flying backwards and landing ungracefully on his rear end from the force of the Beretta's kick back…the first time Dean had caught him stashing the soggy broccoli he'd tried to make him eat at dinner in his jacket pocket …the very first time Sam had ever gotten a buzz from drinking; he'd been sixteen, and he'd only had one beer.

He'd been so caught up in his memories that he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden voice calling to him from the door of the bar. "Dean?"

It was Jo.

Dean let out a breath and grabbed his phone, snapping closed the glove compartment before he slid out of the car.

She was standing just inside the door, her arms folded across her stomach. There was concern plainly written all over her face.

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the gesture, but…

He sent her a quick and reassuring nod as he grabbed the two duffel bags and pushed closed the back door of the car. "Sam alright?"

She shyly nodded as he started towards her. "He's asking for you."

"Yeah, figured he might." Stepping up onto the porch, Dean went to push past her; she placed a hand suddenly on his chest to stop him. He looked down at her, unable to stop himself from narrowing his eyes. "What?"

Almost as if she'd been shocked, she pulled her hand from his shirt; she swallowed hard. "Everything you guys said…about the psychics. It's really true?"

"You know it is."

"And Sam-"

"Is my brother."

There was no mistaking the warning in Dean's voice and Jo nodded quickly, looking apologetic. "I know."

"Dean?"

Ellen's voice now rang out and Dean unceremoniously pushed his way through the door; he could feel the duffel bag on his right shoulder bump Jo as he went, but he couldn't really be bothered to care.

Ellen was standing behind the bar and Sam was still sitting, slouched, on his stool. Ellen's hand was maternally raking through Sam's crazy hair as he rested his head tiredly on his arms.

"How's he doin'?"

"Practically sleepin' like a baby."

Dean smiled, swinging the duffels off his shoulder and to the floor as he came to a stop beside Sam's stool. "Kid can't hold his liquor. Doesn't take after me there."

Ellen smiled as well. "Maybe not, but he takes after you in the ways that matter."

Dean's smile widened and he placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, giving his baby brother a light shake. "Sammy, come on man, look alive."

"Are you gonna need anything for him tonight?"

Glancing at Ellen, Dean shook his head. "I don't think so. He's usually pretty good." He shook Sam again. "Come on, kiddo, let's go."

Sam groaned and his eyes slowly fluttered open. Dean, who had one hand on Sam's shoulder and the other hand braced against the bar, leaned down slightly to see into his brother's face. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam."

"…'m tired."

"Yeah, I know you are." Hitching a hand underneath each of Sam's arms, Dean used his strength to lift his little—but truly enormous—brother to his feet. "You ok?"

"I'm fine-" Pathetically batting Dean's hands away, Sam looked hilarious as he over-cautiously maneuvered his way around the countless stools—almost like he was afraid the floorboards would explode of he moved too quickly.

Dean watched him like a hawk quickly grabbing the duffel bags and falling into step behind Sam, ready, in case he started to stumble.

Ellen was smiling warmly at the two brothers as they shuffled past; she reached out a hand and touched Sam's arm affectionately. "Night boys."

Sam waved at her distractedly and Dean nodded his head politely.

****

Pushing the door closed behind him, Dean almost laughed out loud as Sam dove onto the closest bed face first.

With his face squished into the pillow, he let out a groan. "Dean…'m tired."

"Go to sleep, Sammy."

Dean walked around Sam's bed to get to his own and he dropped their duffel bags to the floor, slowly shedding his jacket. If he hadn't been intentionally listening for his little brother's voice, he never would've heard it.

Sam was tentative, almost sad. In a small voice, he said , "Don't want you scared of me, Dean."

Dean froze for a split second before tossing his jacket down onto his bed and turning around slowly. Sam was facing him, his face still squished against the pillow, but his eyes—even after so much whiskey—were surprisingly alert.

Taking a deep breath Dean crouched down beside Sam's bed, resting his arms on the very edge to steady himself. Sam watched his every movement and Dean's chest flooded with feeling at the sight of his little brother's wide eyes.

For a moment, he had absolutely no idea what to say.

Was he scared of Sam? That was easy. No chance in hell.

Visions didn't matter. Connections to demons were irrelevant. Telekinesis? That was a little freaky, but Dean knew that he wasn't scared of it.

He knew without a doubt that he wasn't scared _of_ Sam.

He was scared _for_ him.

As the older brother, Dean had always tried to have all the answers where Sam was concerned. He'd wanted to be able to answer homework questions, girl questions, "growing up" questions…anything and everything that might come up as his little brother got older.

When it came to what he needed to know to _protect_ Sam, Dean was even more fierce. He'd learned how to load and fire a shotgun in under five seconds, just in case…he'd started visually scanning motel rooms before he would even let Sam anywhere near the door. The traits, skills and knowledge he needed to protect Sammy had become entrenched, hardwired, into his psyche and the idea of something descending over his brother that he couldn't stop or even hope to understand terrified him.

Dean wasn't going anywhere, but looking into Sam's eyes at that moment, he knew Sam was scared of him leaving. _Stupid kid_, Dean shook his head. As if Sam could do anything—or become anything—to make him go.

Taking another deep breath, Dean said in a near whisper, "I'm not scared of you, Sammy." Sam blinked owlishly at him. "Don't be thinkin' that."

"You…said it-"

"I didn't mean it how it came out, dude."

Dean instantly knew that trying to explain this particular thing to a drunken Sam was absolutely pointless. The kid wouldn't get it right then, and the following morning, he probably wouldn't remember.

Sam proved his point when his eyes scrunched up comically in confusion. "What?"

Dean sent him a tired smile, moving a hand to brush Sam's bangs away from his face. "Nothin', nevermind. Go to sleep, ok? We'll talk tomorrow."

Sam still looked confused. "_What_?"

"Go to sleep Sam." Dean stood from his crouch and watched as the confusion melted away from his brother's face, being replaced by nothing but tiredness. His eyes tiredly slipped closed and within only a few short minutes, his breathing evened out into sleep.

Dean sighed and turned back to his own bed, rummaging through his duffel bag in search of clean sweatpants.

The Roadhouse was relatively quiet around him. He could hear the faint creaking of the floorboards as Ellen and Jo moved around upstairs and he could hear a light wind blowing outside.

Still not having found his sweatpants and feeling a sudden wave of stress crash over him, Dean leaned over and braced his hands on the bed, letting out a heavy breath.

He realized at that moment that he had a massively huge, painfully pounding headache.

After a few moments of deep breathing, he opened his eyes and continued the search through his bag. His mood took a definite upswing when, along with his sweatpants, he found a nearly empty bottle of Advils.

"Thank Christ." He muttered to himself, twisting open the cap and shaking the _last_ two pills out into his palm. Dean then looked around for a bottle of water and grimaced when he realized, kind of dumbly, that he didn't have one.

Taking an incredibly long look at Sam—who still seemed dead to the world—Dean crossed the room to the bedroom door and carefully opened it.

The bar beyond was completely dark. He felt like a total idiot as he reached around the doorframe, feeling around blindly for some sort of light switch; all he felt was wood paneling.

Cautiously leaving the back room, he continued feeling along the wall until he stumbled across a light switch that may or may not have been from the stone age.

Light filled the familiar room and he sighed, shuffling behind the bar counter towards the small fridge under the far counter.

An incoherent yell made Dean whip around and instinctively reach for the handgun stashed in the waistband of his jeans. Pulling it free, he aimed it at the source of the sound and pulled the hammer back.

Stumbling from the darkness near the pool tables, Ash appeared almost out of nowhere. His long hair was disheveled and messy, his eyes heavy-lidded. Dean recognized the look immediately; Ash had had _more_ beers and whiskey than he had. "Ash-" He reset the hammer on his gun and replaced it in his waistband. "What's up."

"Dean?" Ash squinted like a moron in the light and wiped a hand down his face noisily, stumbling towards the counter. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

"Me and Sam are crashin' for the night."

"Oh, very nice."

Dean nodded awkwardly as he grabbed a bottled water. After a few seconds of silence, he said, "Uh, I'm gonna get some shut eye." He walked into the bedroom and moved to close the door; at the last second, he looked out at Ash, who was still sitting on one of the rickety stools. "You ok out here, man?"

Ash, who looked over at Dean as if he had just noticed he was there, nodded. "It's all good."

All Dean could do was shake his head as he pushed the door closed.

He almost laughed.

"Dean?"

Dean turned and his eyes fell on Sam, who's eyes were also open. Dean was almost surprised that his little brother was conscious; when Sam drank and fell asleep, he was almost always out until the following morning, then Dean would somehow find a way to shock him back into alertness.

"You ok, Sammy?"

"What…were you doin' out there?"

The slight slur of Sam's speech made Dean smile slightly. "Just gettin' some water."

"Talkin' to yourself, too?"

"Makes for some pretty interesting conversation, dude."

"Yeah…_not_."

Dean couldn't help but chuckle. "Smart-ass." Sam tiredly closed his eyes and Dean noticed for the first time that his little brother was looking a little green. He moved closer to the bed and looked down at Sam's face. "You sure you're alright?"

Forcing his eyes open again, Sam said, "Got a headache."

Dean stood quietly for a second, glancing down at the last two Advils in his hand.

Cracking open the small bottle of water, he held the pills out to Sam. "Sit up and take these." Realizing what Dean was holding out, Sam pathetically lifted his head off his pillow; he shook from the strain of the movement and Dean set the water bottle down on the bedside table before gently grasping his brother's arm to help.

Sam fighting to swallow the pills made Dean grimace, and he watched in concern as Sam slowly settled back into his pillow. "You good?"

Sam barely moved. "Thanks, Dean."

Dean stood and watched him for another few minutes, watching the familiar stages as Sam fell back into slumber; the light and short breathing which slowly got deeper and longer...the strain in his face evening out into smoothness...his muscles relaxing. Dean could always tell, even in the darkness, when Sam had finally fallen asleep.

*

_Sam practically bounced onto Dean's bed, his hair still damp from his bath, his favorite Spiderman PJ's on and his favorite storybook clutched tightly in his hands. _

_He never asked anymore for Dean to read to him before bed; it was a regular routine._

_Dean—who'd been reading a magazine—tossed it down to the motel room carpet unquestioningly and sat still as his little brother snuggled his way into his lap. "What story is it tonight, kiddo?"_

_Dean asked the question purely to make Sam smile, he knew what book his little brother would want to read. Sam grinned hugely at him as Dean gently took the book from his hands. "Curious George, huh?" Dean smiled lightly, letting Sam get comfortable against his chest. "Haven't read this one in a while."_

"_It's my favorite."_

"_Yeah-" Dean ruffled Sam's wet hair affectionately. "I know."_

_*_

Dean blinked himself out of his reverie and let out a breath, his heart immediatly identifying the clingy four-year-old with the man. Sam's face wrinkled in sleep. His nose twitched and wiggled. A light sigh escaped him and he shifted his legs across the blankets like a small child.

_Yeah, terrifying demonic psychic, my ass._

No, Dean wasn't going anywhere.

He couldn't leave Sam if his life depended on it.

Of all the things he'd done throughout his life, of all the things he'd seen, Sam had _always_ been the one constant. Even during the time the two brothers had been apart, the knowledge that Sam had been out there _somewhere_ made it easier for Dean to sleep at night. The idea that if he had to hear his little brother's voice, all he had to do was pick up the phone. He'd never been more proud of someone then he was of Sam.

Yeah, the kid was a geek…but he was _Dean's_ geek.


End file.
